Teacups and Madmen
by punktrekk
Summary: Sherlock Holmes: insane, brilliant, manic, alone. When found raving mad on the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes is brought to a psyciatric ward until he regains his memories. Problem is, something's holding him back from remembering anything about his life. Every doctor who enters induces his manic rage and fear. Except one.
1. Teacups and Madmen

Hushed voices and muffled footsteps. John was used to those sounds here, people tiptoeing around like the inmates would jump out at them if they were disturbed. John sighed as he listened to the incoherent babbling of the man behind the nearest door. Locked in a world of his own making, John could certainly understand that the man would talk to himself just as much as if what he saw was reality, but hearing the bloke talk to nothing but the air around him, John couldn't help but wonder what exactly the man was seeing. Hopefully something a bit more hopeful than a psychiatric ward. Maybe his own apartment, where he was free to come and go as he pleased. That was a nice idea. John smiled a bit thinking of the inmate free in his own mind, and that was such a lovely picture John almost didn't notice Lestrade approaching him. John stood up quickly and smiled at him.

"Detective Inspector. Always a pleasure." John said, shaking the man's hand.

"Likewise, Dr. Watson." Lestrade smiled, but his face became grim once more when he heard mumbling from behind the door by to John.

"How's our favourite inmate doing?" Lestrade asked quietly, and John shook his head, whispering, "He's not too good. He was absolutely manic yesterday, throwing things and swearing and screaming his head off. I had to go in and calm him down four times, I couldn't leave his line of sight all day without him going ballistic."

Lestrade pursed his lips and sighed, as if discussing a batty old uncle. "Poor bastard. He really was a genius, so I'm told, and I believe 'em. He's brilliant even now, can't imagine what he was like when he was sane. Wonder what happened to the fellow to make him go round the bend?"

John was silent for a few seconds. When no one knows the answer to a question, it doesn't do to change the topic immediately. After a moment, he said, "I've got to take in his lunch now. You're welcome to come in if you'd like."

"Might as well, he doesn't get much visitors now, does he?"

John picked up the tray with a sandwich, apple, and pot of tea perched precariously on one hand, and unlocked the door with his other. Easing the door open, he moved inside, followed by Lestrade.

The man's long curly brown hair nearly covered his eyes, but he looked up and flipped the hair away from his face, his expression panicked. His face relaxed almost immediately once he saw John, and an altogether distant smile spread across his face, as if he was seeing another world all his own. He rubbed the sleeve of his jumpsuit: a permanent patient who always got shirts too small for his physique.

"Ah, its you John." He said from his position in the corner of the room. "Dropped by for lunch have you?"

"Yes, if that's alright Sherlock?" John asked carefully. When Sherlock didn't say anything, John took it to mean he was free to join him, and moved to sit by Sherlock in the corner, beckoning Lestrade to follow him.

"Sherlock, do you remember Lestrade?" John asked.

"Ah yes, the inspector." Sherlock nodded. "Have you got a new case for me, Gary?"

"It's Greg." Lestrade murmured quietly, but if Sherlock heard, he didn't say anything. Lestrade said louder, "No, I haven't got a case today. Sorry, things are a bit dull these days."

_Damn,_ John thought,_ I forgot to find a story for him to solve. _

"Pity, I've been absolutely bored senseless." Sherlock moaned, knocking the back of his head against the wall. "I lost my temper with a vending machine yesterday, I've become so desperate. If John hadn't been there I doubt that vending machine would be in working order today."

"I don't doubt it." Lestrade agreed, side-eyeing John.

Sherlock slowly poured himself a cup of tea, then offered one to John, who declined. Pulling out his phone, John checked the time and sighed, watching Sherlock. _He's going through withdrawals,_ John thought, noticing Sherlock's shaking hands and sweaty neck,_ we should never have given him that morphine; he'll never recover now._

Sherlock took a sip of tea and turned to John.

"The girl you had diner with last night is a compulsive cheat and has a husband in Greece, I'd get rid of her, you can do better than her." His words came out fast and had a sudden edge to them, as his language always did when he went into 'deduction mode'. Even though John was used to Sherlock's sometimes frightening ability to simultaneously see but not see John, it never failed to amaze him.

"How do you manage to tell that?" he asked, mostly for Sherlock's benefit.

"You mentioned going out last night, when I asked where you said you were treating her someplace fancy so obviously you were trying to impress someone: a girl. Harry is out of the question, you wouldn't bother treating her someplace expensive knowing she'd get drunk and ruin your night, and you have no other close female relations. If you were just friends with her you would most likely opt to split the price, especially if you were going somewhere where you would spend a great deal of money. So whom would you want to impress by treating to expensive diner? Girlfriend's looking good. The napkin she wrote her number on is still in your pocket, her writing is clean and precise, there were no hesitations on her part, meaning she knows her number well and writes it down for lots of people. A flirt or socialite? Given her husband in Greece and excess of men for the picking, I'd say flirt. 'Husband in Greece? How can you tell that Sherlock?' A cursory glance at your phone showed you and a new girl as your lock screen on your phone. Looking at her left hand, you can see a slight tan line around where her wedding ring normally is, meaning wherever she puts on her wedding ring is sunny and gets herself a good tan. It's almost faded, though, meaning she hasn't seen him in a while. There's an envelope in her purse addressed to somewhere in Greece, along with a 'Happy Anniversary Darling' card, you can see in sticking out the side of her purse. So she's sending a wedding card to a man in Greece. Husband, obviously."

"Fantastic!" John exclaimed. As often as Sherlock did that, it never got any less incredible.

Sherlock looked at John with vacant eyes for a few seconds, but a bashful sort of smile indicated that he registered and appreciated John's compliment. "Elementary," he reasoned.

Sherlock took another sip of his tea and then bit out of his apple shakily.

"Lestrade," he said, "Have you got any cigarettes on you?"

"I haven't, I'm on nicotine patches now," Lestrade said.

"Damn, I could use a smoke right now."

"Mmm." Lestrade cast a look to John, who shrugged as if to say, _"You know we couldn't give him anything even if we had some."_

"What about cocaine?"

"No of course I haven't! I'm an officer with bloody Scotland Yard, you think I'd have illegal drugs with me?"

"Well I couldn't be sure you hadn't confiscated some you could give me." Sherlock sighed dramatically. He finished his tea and stared into the cup as if it would tell him where to get the drugs he suffered such extreme withdrawals.

After a long pause, Lestrade stood up. "Look, I've got to catch the train and be out of here by 3:20," he said, "and it's 2:05 right now, so I'd better get ready to head off." John stood to escort him out, but they both paused when he heard a quiet, almost pitiful voice from the corner say, "Don't leave yet Lestrade, you haven't had any tea yet." Lestrade let out a slow, deep breath, and turned around. Sherlock looked so innocent, like a child, wide-eyed and blank. He looked up at them, and John felt a pang in his stomach.

"Sherlock, I'll be back to visit next week, I promise. I'll have a," Lestrade fumbled slightly, trying to remember what Sherlock called the riddles he solved. "A… a 'case' for you too, a nice juicy murder, alright?" Lestrade said, turning back to the man, who stood up, teacup shaking in his hands.

"No, don't leave please not now not when we were just beginning to chat!" Sherlock's eyes were focused now: focused on the only two men he recognised leaving him. "Did I say something wrong? Did I do something? No please, don't leave me here alone! I hate it here, I hate it I hate it I hateit IhateitIhateitIhateitIHATEIT SO MUCH" Sherlock's voice grew louder with each word, and Lestrade started to back up, hands held up in defense.

"Sherlock, listen, I-" he started, but Sherlock screamed and threw the teacup as hard as he could against the wall, centimeters from Lestrade's ear. That was the final straw for Lestrade, who ducked and quickly ran from the room, chased by Sherlock's yells of "NO STOP COME BACK I'M SORRY I JUST WANT-" before he broke down and curled up on the floor, muffled sobs escaping him every now and again.

John stood by the door, a hand on the doorknob, before shaking his head and going to Sherlock's side, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Sherlock rocked slightly in his fetal position on the floor, and small tremors shook his whole body. His neck was running with perspiration and his hands shook uncontrollably. His eyes were empty as he sat up and looked at John, tears dotting his cheeks. John gently brushed them away and Sherlock curled up with his head in John's lap, sniffling quietly and finally whimpering, "What did I do? I thought I was being normal. Why does everyone always leave me, John? Why do I drive people away?"

John felt a pang of guilt. He was one of the people who Sherlock believed would leave him one day, never to return. It killed John, and he wanted to tell Sherlock just how badly he wanted to stay, how invested he was in Sherlock. But John still had to leave him at the end of each day, stuck in this hellhole.

"He'll come back Sherlock, don't worry. He always does. And I'm here now, I won't leave you." John said, gently stroking Sherlock's hair. "I'm right here for you."

Sherlock slowly calmed down, and finally fell asleep with John's breathing as his soundtrack.


	2. The William Scott Case

Sherlock sighed. Lestrade could be so horrifically slow sometimes.

"Obviously it was the stepbrother." He stood up and began to pace the room.

"Obviously?" asked Lestrade, blind and oblivious as always.

"Just arrest him, Geoff, he'll confess after about two minutes of struggling." Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. "Honestly, there's a reason Mycroft refers to ordinary people as 'goldfish', but he always spoke so highly of you I thought I had misjudged you. But I suppose my brother would be the kind to look beyond someone's intellect if they showed enough interest, and I'm sure he finds Gerald attractive enough in his own right."

"Your brother?" John asked. Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John, ignoring Lestrade's spluttering and sentence fragments.

"Yes, my brother Mycroft."

"Mycroft Kingsley? Head of Communications For Her Royal Majesty?"

"Mycroft Holmes you mean, but yes, that one. You've met him, he came round for dinner a few weeks ago."

"He did?"

"The night after we arrested the Russian gunslinger in Coventry?"

"Ah yes." John didn't sound quite convinced, but Sherlock was too bored of talking of his brother to bother trying to convince John anymore. He felt John's eyes follow him as he went to the kitchen and picked up the teacup he had left there that morning, pouring its remains into the sink.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, and Sherlock turned to his friend, head cocked.

"Yes?"

"Why the hell did you pour your tea on the floor?" John asked. Sherlock turned to the cup in his hand.

"I… I didn't. I just poured it into the sink. It had gone cold. Isn't that what you do when you don't want to drink something?" Sherlock asked, confused. John studied him for a second, then leaned back in his chair.

"I suppose it is." He said quietly.

Lestrade spoke up after a moment, saying, "You know Sherlock, I think I might have something you could help with."

"Really, I thought you said you'd not gotten anything new."

"Well we haven't. It's not new necessarily." Lestrade paused, and exchanged a look with John that Sherlock couldn't read. Finally, he continued, "A guy turned up on the streets, raving mad with cocaine on his person, knowing nothing about his life but his name. He's been in a psychiatric ward for about three months, and hasn't recovered any memories that we know of."

Sherlock clasped his hands under his chin, and stared down Lestrade.

"What's his name?"

"Ah…" Lestrade looked at the floor, and John jumped in for him, saying, "William. William Scott."

"You know him?" Sherlock was surprised. John got out of the flat more than Sherlock of course, but Lestrade didn't usually tell John cases before Sherlock.

"It was in the papers, don't expect you paid attention." John explained after a moment's reflection.

"I'm sure I didn't." agreed Sherlock.

"Well, we're trying to figure out how he went round the bend, how to help him and maybe where his family is or at least something about him other than his name. Think you'd be willing to help out?"

"Oh, I don't see why not. Better than sitting in here and trying to keep myself occupied on my own." Though he said it nonchalantly, Sherlock felt like leaping for joy. Finally, a real case! Something intriguing and new and exciting, almost as fun as a serial murderer! A madman found wandering the street with only his drugs and name in his possession. The possibilities were endless!

"Perfect, I'll come and get you and John at 9:00 tomorrow morning, alright?"

"Yes, fine, good." Sherlock said distractedly. Already he could feel his mind starting up and beginning to process and speculate. He didn't even notice when Lestrade left, and only grunted noncommittally when John said he'd be out for a walk two minutes later.

"Well that was better than it usually is, he didn't throw anything or even raise his voice all that much, and he actually let me go pretty soon after you," John said, closing the door quietly behind him and joining Lestrade in walking down the hall. "And I know we already talked and I gave your plan the okay, but do you really think he's going to be able to help in his own case? His subconscious is forcibly blocking his memories, what makes you think he'll be able to figure something out if you make it into a case?"

"I think that if he thinks he's investigating a case about someone totally random, it might trick that deductive brain of his and let him figure out what happened to himself."

"True." John allowed, turning a corner.

"We'll have officers around at all times, and I already talked to the manager here, she said he was free to leave as long as you went with him as his head doctor and we brought him back before the doors close."

"Reasonable enough, I suppose. The outside could do some good for him, I won't deny. That's part of the reason I agreed to this. I'm just worried that he'll snap at someone and land himself in jail."

"I think he can handle it if you're there and we've got people stationed around him in case something happens. Lestrade said hopefully. They reached the end of the hall, and Lestrade extended his hand to John, who took it and smiled.

"We'll see you at 9:00 then?"

"9:00 it is." Lestrade grinned, then ran a hand through his hair and lowered his voice.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention what Sherlock said about Mycroft and I to anyone else. There's absolutely nothing to it of course, but we can't have rumors spreading around, especially when he holds such a significant position in the government and all. I still don't know how he managed to figure-" Lestrade stopped himself before he gave himself away, and John chuckled for a moment.

"Of course not," he said, pretending not to notice that Lestrade had gone bright red as he talked. "I wont say a word."

"Thanks, Dr. Watson." Lestrade nodded at him, and after saying goodbye, walked out of the building. John smirked and after a few seconds, turned back around and headed to the cafeteria to get a bag of crisps.


	3. Sherlock is a Slug & Donovan is a Bitch

"Sherlock? You up yet?" John asked, knocking at his door the next morning.

A low groan came from behind the door. John smiled slightly. Sherlock was never a morning person, and it was rare for him to be up before 8:30. As much as John wanted to let Sherlock sleep, Lestrade would be there in fourty-five minutes, and Sherlock only had two speeds in the mornings: slow and sluggish.

"Sherlock?" John knocked again and then unlocked the door, easing it open and poking his head into the room.

Sherlock was laying on the twin bed, covers flung off and legs sprawled over the edge of the bed, his feet gently brushing the floor. He rolled over slightly and buried his head in the pillow.

"Sherlock," John shook Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock shrugged it off, groaning once more.

"John," He mumbled bitterly, "Five minutes,"

"No Sherlock, Lestrade coming in 45 minutes, you need to get up and start getting ready."

"Well five more minutes won't matter much then…" His sentence trailed off, and Sherlock was still and quiet once more. John sighed and shook Sherlock's shoulder more forcefully, causing Sherlock to lift his head. John seized the opportunity, and lifted Sherlock into a sitting position. Sherlock blinked a few times, then slowly turned to John.

"What time is it?" he asked, his voice blurry from sleep.

"8:15, But Lestr- oh no no no no no Sherlock," John said quickly, as Sherlock had groaned and flopped back down on the bed, "No, we have to get ready because you have a case today, remember? Lestrade told you about it yesterday."

"Ah, yes. The William Scott case, I remember." This seemed to cheer up Sherlock a bit, and he sat back up, running his hands through his hair and ruffling it. _Damn, he's sexy when he does that,_ John thought before he could stop himself. Coughing slightly, John sat up straighter and sighed. "Yes that's the case, so you need to get ready." He gently reminded him. Sherlock stood up and huffed loudly, causing John to crack a smile as he watched Sherlock cross the room to the sink.

_45 Minutes Later_

Sherlock and John left his room at 9:10, met by a Lestrade and a squad of officers and a few members of the forensic team. About eight people were present, including John and Sherlock. Lestrade's right hand woman named Sally Donovan, with dark skin and curly hair, shook John's hand and eyed Sherlock suspiciously.

"So that's the freak then? The brilliant psyco-maniac?" She muttered when they started walking down the hall, Sherlock taking long strides in front of them.

"What did you just call him?" John felt his hands clenching into fists, and slowly focused on calming down.

"A freak. That's what he is, isn't he? Completely insane, goes crazy if anyone tries to get close to him, think's you're a miracle worker? He's a nut-job, a total freak. Honestly, I can't understand why you'd want to deal with him. Lestrade told me everything."

"So Lestrade told you that Sherlock's a freak?" John spat out the last word like it was bitter in his mouth.

"Nah, Lestrade seems to think he's alright." They passed through the main doors and out into the sunlight, "Don't know how he got that impression, but Anderson and I have been talking and we both agreed that we're safer to keep one hand on our mobiles, just in case we need to send him back to his cell, you know? Call for a straight jacket. Better safe than sorry when we're dealing with a nutter like him, if you know what I mean."

John was practically seething at the mouth, and managed to swallow down a fair amount of swearing that threatened to pour out of his mouth.

"And, ah, which one is Anderson?" He tried to ask nonchalantly. Donovan pointed to a man to the right and up about ten paces.

"Phillip Anderson. Head of the forensics team. He and I make up the best of Lestrade's team. He can always count on us." Donovan smiled as she said this, clearly proud of her prized position in Lestrade's force.

"What, count on you to insult everyone within eyesight?" John snapped back, and without waiting for a reply from Donovan, took an extra few steps and caught up to Sherlock.

"Ah, good I was wondering when you'd stop talking to her." Sherlock said as John joined his side.

"Did you- did you hear what we were talking about?" John asked, still struggling to regain his calm demeanor.

"A bit."

"Well she's a bitch," He said vehemently. "I don't agree with her at all Sherlock, I just want you to know tha-"

"I'm not upset, John." Sherlock interupted abruptly. Curiously, John looked up at him.

"You're not?"

"Of course not." Sherlock raised his voice slightly as he continued, "She has every right to call me a freak, just as I have every right to say that I certainly hope she and Anderson had a good time last night while Anderson's wife was out of town. I'm sure the sex was excellent, plus the adrenaline rush they surely got from cheating made the whole of last night very pleasurable for them both."

The man Donovan had pointed out turned around very suddenly and locked eyes with Sherlock, and John looked behind to see Donovan staring at Sherlock like he was from another planet. John smirked slightly and turned back to Sherlock.

"How did you-"

"Both wearing the same deodorant. _Men's_ deodorant. Anderson has a wedding ring, I just heard him talking to Lestrade saying his wife was in Glasglow visiting her sister, Donovan's knees have been shaking quite a lot, and when Anderson checked his phone the first screen was a screen of texts between him and Donovan, one from her this morning which clearly read, 'I loved last night, lets do it again sometime.' Doesn't take a genius to connect the dots."

"That's incredible." John said, half to himself. He saw Sherlock's face grow slightly red, and a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. John patted Sherlock's shoulder twice before sliding into a cab after Lestrade. Donovan, Anderson and a member of the forensics team got into the next cab, and the final two people, both security officers, got into the final cab.

"Hackney Road, please," Lestrade said, and the cabbie nodded and began to drive.


End file.
